In a recent blog, I lamented about the lack of copy editors to guard against affronts to the English language in our newspapers these days.

Our good friend Cheryl found an entertaining obituary in the local newspaper last week confirming that view. Let me make it clear, the notice of someone’s death was not entertaining. It was just the way the obituary was written that was entertaining. I’m not sure it was the fault of the newspaper for not proofing the obituary or the way it was written by a family member. In either case, read on.

A mostly obscure Greek philosopher named Chilon of Sparta coined the phrase “do not speak ill of the dead.”

So I won’t in this case. However, it is certainly worth mentioning that the person who wrote or proofed this eulogy for a wife/mother/friend did not have a very commanding grasp of the English language.

In the obituary, it noted that the departed had a “rye” sense of humor and that she and her spouse had renewed their wedding “vowels” after 10 years. I suspect they meant “wry” and “vows.”

But who knows, based on this butchery of a solemn eulogy? Maybe the woman who died appreciated fine Irish whiskey while telling a joke and perhaps was a linguistics teacher. 

So lettuce not speak eel of the dead — only those who write poorly.

Hustlers and scammers seem to find a way to make a buck out of anything bad. As you’ve probably read, there have been lots of schemes to part people from their money during the COVID-19 pandemic — from signing people up for phony vaccination times to shady investment schemes for their COVID relief funds.

Well, as the pandemic continues, I have come up with what I believe to be a brilliant plan to help people endure some of the unanticipated suffering from having to wear masks —  while at the same time making an honest buck for myself and my family.

EARIES. Or maybe PAND-EARIES.

Yep. Padded inserts behind your ears to prevent the constant chafing of mask straps. (It’s even worse if you wear glasses or hearing aids.)

I am sure, based on my hours of personal observation and assumed command of scientific research, that jillions of people around the globe have developed callouses behind their ears from wearing masks during the year-long pandemic.

What a tragedy! Ears that ache during the night. Ears that itch all day long. The shame of someone spotting your behind-the ear callouses.

Well, PAND-EARIES can solve that problem. Just grab a roll of duct tape or a wad of previously chewed bubble gum, stick them behind your calloused ears and stuff these wonderful devices there. Pain, itch and shame gone instantly.

I just need to find some outfit to manufacture them…

Oh wait, what’s that??? You say the pandemic is almost over and nobody wants anything to make it more painful than it already is? You say that it was a really dumb idea??? You say that I have way too much time on my hands these days???

Okay, maybe I can sell my artwork. Stay tuned. 

There’s a friendly little neighborhood park just a few blocks away from our home in Mesilla Park. It’s a real gem because it’s largely unknown, hidden in the middle of a bunch of streets that go nowhere and very cozy. Our grandkids always make the park a top priority when they visit us. It’s my favorite place to launch my hot air balloon. It’s protected from wind by trees, surrounded by friendly neighbors, close to lots of open landing spaces and is just a couple of minutes — literally — from my house.

A treasure in the park is an art project featuring the designs of children on ceramic tiles that are attached to various structures. As far as I can tell, the art project was put in place in the mid 1990s, due to the dates which appear on some of the tiles. The different structures feature tiles depicting different topics. One is about family, one is about food, one is about the landscape and another about their homes. One of the tiles was signed by Maggie Feil who my daughter played soccer with or against back in the day. Seeing her tile makes me wonder how each one of these children fared over the years. I’m sure some of them have had wonderful lives and a few, sadly, probably did not. I recently ran into Maggie’s father, a retired Las Cruces physician, and asked him how she was doing because her tile constantly reminds me of her. “Great,” was his immediate response, then explaining what she was doing these days in a successful career that I think was somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. 

I also spotted the tile below on the “predict the future” structure. Clearly, the young man who created this tile knew what the future in personal transportation was going to hold. 

 

It appears young Mr. Bean had some difficulty spelling “electic” to describe his car of the future. Or perhaps he meant “eclectic.” Either way, I think he knew what was coming. 

There’s another entertaining tile on this same “predict the future” structure. I hope its creator, Amanda Torres, promoted this idea to McDonald’s and made a ton of money on it. Just think, you’d never have to wait in a drive-up lane or stand behind long lines at the counter any more.  You’d just grab a happy meal any time you were hungry while whizzing above the earth. I mean, they already do this on airlines, so why not in your own flying car?

 

I’m proud to say I knew award winning novelist and New Mexico icon Tony Hillerman. He was a professor of journalism when I began my pursuit of a journalism degree at the University of New Mexico in the late 1960s. I considered him a mentor while in school and stayed in touch with him after my graduation. He worked for United Press International for a period of time in Santa Fe, and I had a career with UPI in Santa Fe, Albuquerque and Cheyenne, WY, for many years. I gave his daughter Anne, a novelist in her own right these days, her first writing job to help me cover the New Mexico Legislature when I was UPI’s Santa Fe Bureau Chief and State Political Editor. He even wrote an article for “The Quill” — the journal of the professional journalism society, Sigma Delta Chi — that focused on my reporting of a notorious murder at Budville, NM, in the late 1960s. As a teacher and a writer, he inspired me in many ways. 

Most of Hillerman’s mystery novels are focused on the Navajo Nation, where he had gained great appreciation and respect for the Navajo people.  The Navajos in turn appreciated him for his thoughtful and well researched depiction of their culture and awarded him the “Special Friends of the Dine'” award. He considered it his most important of many awards.

One of the things he has mentioned in several of his interviews about his books on the Navajo Nation is the keen and delicate sense of humor that the Dine’ display.

So it came as no surprise when I spotted the signs below in a report about how the Navajos were dealing with the COVID-19 pandemic. Having been hit very hard by the disease, the Navajos retained their sense of humor when they reminded people about the need for social distancing. Since raising sheep is a long held tradition on the reservation, this sign made perfect sense. 

I wrote two posts earlier this year regarding the appearance and then sudden disappearance of a pair of still functional cowboy boots along the irrigation ditch road in our neighborhood.

Well, strange things keep happening around that location and I’m starting to wonder about what gyrating forces of the unknown are lurking around there. No, I’m not wacko, just interested in weirdness.

Earlier this week on our daily walk, at the exact same spot where we found and then unfound the cowboy boots, there was a thick slab of white Lexan plastic material about a 18-inches square with the letter B and number 3 etched into it. “B3,”as maybe for a marker for a parking space or an overly large Bingo game piece. Otherwise, there was nothing else to identify what it was used for or why it was there. Then two days later, it was gone.

On Wednesday, we were told by one of our neighbors that a stripped mid-80s Camaro had been found just across the ditch from where we spotted the cowboy boots and the large plastic sign.  There was mystery surrounding it too. Our neighbor, who reported finding the car to local police, said it had been determined that the car was either towed there after being stripped or stripped on the spot. Towing it there after it was stripped — including its wheels and tires — would have been pretty hard to do. And there was no evidence of a wheel less car being dragged to that location. I suppose it could have been loaded onto a flatbed truck and moved there, but that seems like a lot of work for four wheels and tires,  taillight lenses and a passenger seat.

Our neighbor said she had not observed the abandoned vehicle during her early morning walk, so if it was stripped between that time and when she spotted it later in the day, it was a pretty brazen job.  There’s a lot of traffic on that street, including police from the town of Mesilla who cruise through our neighborhood on a fairly frequent basis. The perps even found time to put the vehicle up on blocks after it was stripped.

The car has now disappeared, apparently moved under the authority of the police. Or maybe it was transported through the neighborhood portal.

Which brings me to my final point of weirdness in the neighborhood — a new wave of turkey vultures, commonly known as buzzards. A flock of these large birds shows up in our neighborhood every spring and hang around through the summer, flying swirling patterns in the thermals over our houses. This year, even more of these intimidating looking birds have shown up, inhabiting not one but two giant pine trees about two blocks apart. It’s always been fun to watch them, particularly in the evening on a breezy day when they make multiple passes before settling to roost with their wings spread in the tall pine trees. And at that point, they begin to poop on their feet. (Yes, that’s true — read item No. 3 in this link if you’re not too squeamish:  14 Things You Should Know About Vultures | Mental Floss) But having two flocks of these birds swooping (and pooping) around makes the neighborhood appear (and smell) a bit more ominous.

Maybe they got the word that there is a fourth wave of COVID-19 coming soon to our area.  I hope not. Stay safe.

A story in the Albuquerque Journal several years ago focused on an unusual attempt to steal a stand-alone ATM machine on the city’s west side. A man managed to hot wire a front end loader from a nearby construction site, drive it to the location of the ATM and then proceed to pluck it up from its anchoring bolts with the bucket of the vehicle. The now liberated ATM was scooped up in the bucket and headed for freedom.

Cops got wind of the scheme when someone reported a front end loader with something odd dangling out of the bucket and wobbling down a nearby street. The perp was arrested before he could smash open the cash dispenser and escape with the loot.

Well, someone in Lincoln, NE, has outdone the Albuquerque front-end loader incident.

According to a story this week in the Omaha World-Herald, a man near a construction site fell and injured his leg. A friend who was with him spotted an unattended front-end loader, placed his injured friend in the vehicle’s bucket, hot wired the machine and drove him a mile to the nearest hospital. He parked the lumbering unit in the ambulance bay while medical attendants unloaded the bucket’s “load” and took the injured man to the emergency room. Thinking he might get accolades for saving his friend, the driver of the front end-loader was instead arrested for a variety of offenses.

Charges included suspicion of felony theft by unlawfully taking a $75,000 vehicle, felony DWI, felony driving during revocation, having an open alcohol container in a vehicle and possession of 3.5 grams of marijuana. Police said the man blew a .184 blood alcohol test — more than twice the legal limit — when he was arrested. They also discovered his driver’s license had been revoked 15 years earlier — when he was only 17 — for DWI.

My recommendation to criminals is to not use a front end loader for your nefarious activities. They are just a little bit too obtuse. A faded white and battered 2004 Chevy pickup might be a little more stealthy.

Over the years, the owner of an apartment complex in Bernalillo, a bedroom community to Albuquerque, probably found lots of unusual things left by renters after they vacated their digs.

However, in 2010, what the owner found was especially disconcerting.

Left behind in a kiddy pool on the floor of the the living room of the apartment were two South American spectacled crocodiles — probably anxiously awaiting their next meal and happy to see a potential snack.

How the crocodiles got there and what eventually happened to them was not disclosed in anything I could find. However I have a theory about that.

Our neighbor to the south along the Rio Grande — El Paso, TX — was famous for having a group of live alligators slithering around a pond in the middle of the downtown San Jacinto square. The alligators were a popular tourist attraction from 1889 until 1965, when they were removed because they had been abused by spectators.  History is unclear about how the gators first appeared in the pond, and there were many of them who lived there over the years. The last remaining ones were relocated to the city zoo. In honor of the displaced alligator mississippiensi, a fiberglass statue was erected at the site of the original pond in San Jacinto Plaza in 1993.

Since Albuquerque has been seen as a competitor with El Paso for years, perhaps someone was surreptitiously planning to outdo the “Sun City” to the south with a display of a more ferocious type of swamp dweller.  The city’s somewhat sterile all downtown Civic Plaza might have been livened up with a pond of crocodiles. 

Okay, I know that’s a stretch, but in these days of conspiracy theories, I think it’s an entertaining one.  

Apparently too anxious to get out for the party on New Year’s Eve in 2010, an employee of AAA accidentally typed in the wrong number for a “Tipsy Tow” service in Carlsbad.

Off by just one digit, it turned out to be an 800 number for a phone sex service. 

I’m just speculating here, but I’ll bet that error kept a lot of men off the road that evening while they jabbered with Buffy about how to meet with her in person on the banks of the Carlsbad River Park. 

 

My blogs have been a bit scarce for the last week because we were entertaining our daughter and two small grandchildren from Austin for the first time in more than a year.

Our week consisted of daily hikes around the area to see things we thought everyone would enjoy experiencing. We visited Slot Canyon, the Bosque Trail by the Rio Grande, the Organ Mountain-Desert Peaks National Monument, Prehistoric Trackways National Monument and the Tortugas Dam with its spectacular artwork by Kathy Morrow (if you haven’t seen it, it’s really worth the trip.)

At the Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks National Monument, we visited the cave in the La Cuevas rock structure that was once inhabited by a hermit in the mid 1860s. Giovanni Maria de Agostini, an Italian, wandered around Europe, South America, Canada and New Mexico before settling in Las Cruces in a cave (actually an overhanging rock formation) near the base of the Organ Mountains. He befriended several people in nearby Mesilla and became known for his healing powers.

His friends warned him of the dangers of living in the cave so far from civilization, but he insisted on the solitude it offered. However, he promised his friends in Mesilla that he would light a fire in front of his cave every Friday night to assure them he was still alive. The fire, it was said, was clearly visible in Mesilla, almost 20 miles away.

“I shall make a fire in front of my cave every Friday evening while I shall be alive. If the fire fails to appear, it will be because I have been killed. I shall bless you daily in my prayers,” he reportedly told his friends.

One Friday night in 1869, the fire failed to glow from the base of the Organ Mountains. Friends rushed to the hermit’s cave the next morning and found him dead, laying on his crucifix with a knife in his back. His murder was never solved. 

Just like the sun reflecting semaphores used on top of the Robledo Mountains by the soldiers at Fort Selden in the late 1800s, men have used light to communicate over long distances before telephones were invented or even telegraphs were widely in use. In Giovanni’s case, his method of communicating with his friends was innovative, but it in the end, it wasn’t fast enough to save him. 

When I was beginning my career in journalism, newspapers had copy desks. They were filled with sage older writers who had migrated from the thrill of being a beat reporter to the seemingly mundane task of reviewing every article that was to go in the paper, writing a headline for it and them assembling the stories for each page of the publication.

These were talented guys — Millard Hunsley, James Abar, Jim Smith, Bill Bogle and others — who sat around a U-shaped desk to review every sentence and word printed in the newspaper. They were sticklers for proper spelling, sentence structure, general readability and compliance with the Associated Press or United Press International stylebooks. I learned a lot from these men about writing that has served me well through the years. And I feared when they would send a story back to me for clarification, correction or — in one case — a note that just rejected my story as “lousy.”

Writing a headline for each story was an important element of their job. Even today, when something odd or exciting happens to me, I immediately write a headline in my mind for the story about whatever happened. For example:

• “Unfocused Mesilla Park Man Trips While Walking Dog; Fall Smashes Prized Neighborhood Flower Garden.”
• “Propane Tank on Outdoor Grill Catches Fire; Owner Placed It Too Close To Burning Coals”
• Flames Almost Torch Owner’s Home; Embarrassing Fire Department Call Made

I bring this up because of two glaring errors I spotted in Albuquerque Journal and Las Cruces Sun-News headlines this week.

In the first incident, the front page of the Sun-News announced that “Freshman claim state speech and debate title.” The adjoining picture showed two different people who won the separate awards. So it clearly should have read “FreshMEN claim…” In the second incident, the Albuquerque Journal headline announced the eruption of a new volcano in “Ireland.” Well, sorry, Journal, the volcano was in ICELAND.

The problem isn’t really the fault of most newspapers who no longer have the money or resources for a real copy desk . It’s really a symptom of fewer and fewer people reading newspapers these days and a squeeze for more profits from newspaper owners. As a result, you, the reader, often get poorly edited copy and we all suffer the loss of well written, grammatically and factually correct newspaper stories. 

My recommendation to everyone is that you read a reliable mainstream newspaper every day and not rely so much on online sources for your news. 

Okay, that’s my rant for the day.

About six months ago, I wrote about a guy in Clovis who was standing naked on a street corner and ranting about various injustices when city police stopped and tried to diffuse the situation. The naked perp managed to jump into a still-running police unit and streak (pun intended) off to the hospital, where he turned himself in. This happened about six years ago

Well, Omaha, Nebraska, seems to have had a similar incident just last week.

Police responded to reports of a naked man running along a downtown street and damaging vehicles. When they arrived, they spotted him on top of a semitrailer truck.

Confronted, he leaped off the truck to jump into a waiting police cruiser and sped away, crashing into several other cars and objects before his arrest.

I have to believe it had something to do with New Mexico. I’ve written several blog posts in the last year of naked people doing strange things in our state. From a rugby player I knew who stripped naked in the back of a pickup truck to wave at passers by on I-10 to a naked man who confronted traffic control cameras in Santa Fe, I think New Mexico just invokes this kind of weirdness. I believe the freedom of our wide open spaces invokes the need to strip down to basics and just let it go. I think the guy in Omaha must have passed through the Land of Enchantment at some time in his past and was infected by our lust for the au natural.

So far, I’ve been able to keep my wits — and my clothes — about me. Except for the time I participated in a Zulu War Dance ritual after scoring a “try” in a rugby match. But that’s another story for another time.

In the last few years, I have started reading obituaries in the Albuquerque Journal about people I’ve never met. I’m mostly interested in what people did during their lives and if they are not native New Mexico residents, how and why they ended up here. I feel that by reading these obituaries, I am in some small way honoring them for their accomplishments in life.

Last week, when searching through the obituaries, I found one for a man whose family noted that he was “a typewriter repairman most of his adult life…” It was an honest profession and he retired from it about the time it no longer became relevant. That was perfect timing.

When I drive through the town of Espanola, I am often amused by the sign painted on the side of a downtown building which proudly announces the name of the business inside as “Espanola Typewriter Repair.” I suspect the business ceased to exist many years ago and no one has taken the opportunity to paint over the sign. I imagine most people don’t even think about typewriters any more until they see that sign.

I’ve pounded out what I think must have been thousands of stories over the years on typewriters. I’m proud to say I still have one — an Underwood with a hefty metal frame and elite type face. It still works — qwerty keyboard and all — but I wonder if I can still find a ribbon for it.

It makes one think about what things we use and do frequently in our lives today that will no longer be relevant in about 20 years. In my case, I hope writing will still be relevant as long as I can do it and I can find someone who cares enough to read about what I wrote.

In 2005, workers at the Albuquerque Zoo discovered something rather gruesome outside the cage of the resident Jaguar. It was a human finger, severed no doubt by the bite of the “panthera onca” in the cage.

No one came forward to claim the severed digit, maybe because they were too embarrassed that they really didn’t believe the “DO NOT STICK YOUR FINGERS IN THE CAGE OR FEED THE ANIMALS” sign. Or perhaps the Jaguar might have had more for its snack than just a finger. The critter wasn’t interested in discussing the matter.

When I looked up information about Jaguars, the largest cat in the Western Hemisphere, I found this frightening entry: “They’ll eat almost anything.” You have been warned.

I’m very proud to say that my wife (and three nephews) have retained possession of a family farm in central Nebraska that was homesteaded by her pioneering great great grandfather. It’s nothing that will ever make us rich, but it is a great source of pride to be able to hang onto a piece of land with so much history, filled with the hopes and dreams of those who worked the Platte River Valley homestead for so many years. Besides, we recently learned that Bill Gates has been buying up farms in Nebraska, so it’s a hot property these days.

For legal reasons, the property is set up as the “(My wife’s maiden name) Family Farm,” with my wife listed as the principal contact for the operation, even though it is farmed now under a contract arrangement with local farmers.

So we were rather amused last week when this piece of targeted direct mail arrived in our mailbox, addressed to Margo Lamb of the “Lamb Family Farm.”

It seems that Whataburger is soliciting businesses in our area in Las Cruces to give free food coupons to their employees as a reward. “Please put these coupons in your break room or where your team can share them,” the direct mail piece suggests. Of course, to get a free Whataburger, “Honey Butter Chicken Biscuit,” milkshake or “Breakfast on a Bun,” you have to buy a bunch of other food items that you probably don’t want. It also says you can order some “made to order appreciation” for your business team.

Well, let’s put this in perspective.

For starters, There are no Whataburger franchises in Nebraska. The closest ones are in Amarillo, TX, or Stillwater, OK, about 475 miles away from the farm in central Nebraska. Secondly, the “Lamb Family Farm” really has no employees, although I guess you might consider my wife as one, even though she receives no compensation for monitoring the legal affairs of the property. And then there’s the issue of the non-existent “Break Room.” Maybe the cab of a John Deere tractor?

But what is kind of creepy is how this direct mail program seemed to come up with enough personal data to know that my wife was involved in a family farming operation. Of course, they got the name of the operation wrong and assumed the farm was just out our back door somewhere in the Mesilla Valley.

I think I may give them a call to see if they can send up a box of burgers and fries for a TGIF “team” celebration 977 miles away in the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, I guess we could enjoy some of the 16 different coupons

However, if you’re trying to reach potential customers in Nebraska with fast food, I think they’d actually prefer a Runza (look it up) to a Whataburger.